


Hand in Hand

by ineedbetterhobbies



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/F, Gay Robots, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Sex, Porn With Plot, Self-Hatred, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Suicidal Thoughts, i'm playing fast and loose with canon tbh, sad lesbians getting it on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 17:17:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineedbetterhobbies/pseuds/ineedbetterhobbies
Summary: The praise her Autobot comrades sang for her marksmanship skills had turned to rust in her audials cycles ago. Moonracer learned to hate her servos, and for what the war had turned her into. Firestar reminds her of who she is, and what her hands are capable of outside of the battlefield.





	Hand in Hand

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using a mix of canon from different tf universes, like G1 and the comics. 
> 
> Also, I kind of took a hold of Firestar and tried to give her more of a personality than the ones I read on the different wikis, or in the original cartoon (if the characterization seems off, I'm just shooting from the hip at this point) 
> 
> This site needs more lesbian robots, so I thought I'd provide.

Moonracer had learned to hate her servos.

They were responsible for too much, and she always felt the weight of her rifle on them, even in moments of rare respite. In secret, the praise her comrades sang about her marksmanship skills turned to grating rust in her audials a long time ago. She hadn’t wanted to become a soldier when she came to Cybertron, but after the fall of Iacon, her home away from Velocitron, she had decided to serve, thinking the weapons she’d only have to wield were her speed and diversion tactics. How foolishly wrong she had been. Cycles ago, she had been ignorant, and damnably naïve at the nature of the war.

She snorted to herself, the memories of her childish self, bubbling animatedly about enlisting, earning a familiar twist in her spark. Now, once again, her servos were splattered with some Decepticon’s energon and processor-matter and she couldn’t help but stare. Pink splatters riddled her frame, and she all wanted to do was scrub herself clean. She wanted to soak away her actions and drown her armor in a baptism of burning water.

She pulled herself to the washracks, weariness pulling her spark low in her tanks. Her team had successfully reclaimed part of a smaller city-state, but not without multiple causalities on both sides. Moonracer hated killing, but Primus, was she good at it. She was reminded of it in every battle, of when her volleys earned her sprays of energon leaping onto her hands and body. Unlike some of her comrades, she didn’t relish in the spilt energon of fallen Decepticons. She did not take pleasure in extinguishing their sparks, even if they were giddy in doing the same to her. It sickened her.

The war had changed her, and Moonracer felt she was unrecognizable in the mirrors of the washracks. She had become hardened, in spark and in frame. She eyed her reflection. A stranger grimaced back at her, dripping in garish pink. Her scarred armor was sticky with fresh energon, and she could taste it on her own glossa. She gagged, coolant pooling in her optics as felt bile rise in the back of her intake. She placed a servo against the tile to steady herself, shoulders shaking in disgust and grief. She fumbled with the faucet handle, jerking it roughly in its highest position.

A deluge of scalding water rained down, blasting from the piping in a storm of steam and cleansing heat. It burned the crevices of her exposed protoform, but she didn’t care. Splaying her servos, Moonracer hung her helm, letting the water run down her spinal strut and pedes. She watched as the film of gore she earned that battle circle the drain, strident and undeniable in the gleaming white of the wash stall. In the overwhelming hiss of the shower, she shuttered her optics and wept. In front of her comrades, she joked and smiled emptily, hoping to keep up her old façade of the bubbly and hopeful speedster she had once been.

But in the privacy of the wash racks, she often let the old mask slip, and her true feelings tumble free. She scrubbed her chassis roughly, scouring her frame with brisk, angry strokes. She gritted her denta as she made her way over old battle wounds, scars in her living metal and softer protoform. Closing her optics, she scraped the sponge harshly across her face plate, hoping to rid herself of the disgusting taste and sight of her actions. But Moonracer knew this clean wouldn’t last. She’d have to sully herself on the frontlines again.

And again.

And again.

Until this damned war ended, or she’d be offlined.

Whichever came first, she’d become free from violence. But with Megatron’s perpetual bloodlust, and seemingly never-ending army, she could only hope for the latter. At least then she wouldn’t have to kill anyone ever again. Despite how the war warped her, she was still a coward. She was able to fire her rifle on others, but she could never turn it on herself. She knew that it was mainly fear that drove her on, fear for the Pit and Primus knows what else. Whatever else drove her, whether it was some semblance of duty or honor, she couldn’t say. Such notions became muddled and messy, bleeding together without clear borders in her processor.

Not what was expected in the so-called ‘benevolent’ Autobot soldiers. She barked out a humorless laugh, an abrupt eruption in between the shaky sobs that had claimed her. Decepticons were viewed as evil, and the Autobot cause was supposedly the just, righteous path for Cybertron. She once whole-heartedly agreed, without question or a twitch of doubt. But after the pistols, rifles, and multitudes of other weapons were placed in her servos, she couldn’t see the distinctions between Autobots and Decepticons as strong as before. She still hated the Decepticons, but a part of her knew that they were not so different from her, simply on the opposite side of a war that swallowed everything and everyone in its path.

She could only guess the planet itself was next. Would the war spill onto other planets? Would it soon claim Velocitron? Moonracer didn’t want to think about the possibilities, nor the lives she just took earlier. In the heat of the shower, Moonracer still felt a brief chill settle over her limbs. In her grief, she didn’t notice the sound of another joining her in the washracks.

The water still roared, but a distinct voice cut through.

“I thought you’d be here, ‘Racer.” A feminine voice rasped, smoky and low.

Moonracer turned, meeting the optics of her closest comrade, and friend. Firestar stood in the stall’s entrance, optic ridges low on her unwavering gaze. It was a tender look, but with a fierce, quiet intensity that only Firestar could manage.

Firestar tilted her helm, bright optics now roving over Moonracer’s frozen form.

Firestar didn’t have to speak to know she wanted to know how she felt. Shaking her helm, Moonracer wrenched the water off, and turned her back to her friend, and her questioning look.

“I’ll, uh, be out in a moment. Must’ve just lost track of time, hah!” She chirped, forcing out a laugh, voice reedy with faked enthusiasm.

She became suddenly interested in her pedes, and the swirl of the drain. Of all people, it had to be Firestar that caught her crying. In the damned washracks, no less.

“Don’t put up an act for my sake, ‘Racer. I know the difference, anyways. You should know this.” Firestar remarked quietly, placing a servo on one of Moonracer’s flaring pauldrons. Moonracer tried to shrug her servo off, but Firestar tightened her grip.

“Don’t try to push me away or act like nothing’s wrong ‘Race. We’ve known each other too long for scrap like that.” Firestar whispered fiercely, tugging Moonracer closer to her. Moonracer momentarily cringed, optics dropping to her hands.

She shook her head and plastered on a look that would’ve convinced other theatric Camians, but not Firestar.

Still, she continued, not wanting to open up. She had become close to Firestar, but they had never broached the subject of the latest battles and their exact impact on her, particularly with her role as the team’s main gunner. She had been promoted to the role cycles ago, but Moonracer never spoke of her feelings on it, or anything particularly serious. She had become accustomed to simply grinning and babbling along, like her old self, while stepping over the corpses of those felled by her. Moonracer gave a shaky grin, patting her comrade’s servo with her own.

“I’m fine, Firestar. I just really needed a shower. Ya know how it is for us gunners, especially up close, heh…” Firestar removed her hand from Moonracer’s shoulders, optics going dim with thought. For a moment, they stood in the sudden quiet, the only noise the dripping of the faucet and Moonracer’s cleansed armor.

“Well…I should go towel off. Ya know how Chromia doesn’t like us spending too much time in here, what with the new orders from Elita and all. I’ll see you back in the barracks, Firestar.” Moonracer took a few hesitant steps, trying to slip pass her friend. Before she could leave the stall, Firestar muttered something, her voice a gravelly whisper.

Moonracer turned her helm, glancing back at her friend. What did she want to say now? Couldn’t she just leave it, and not question her like her other teammates? Everyone else paid no mind to her, or interrogated her. They only ever gave her praise, and as much as she hated it, Moonracer didn’t want for their well-intentioned words to turn into sharpened, probing questions. But Firestar was a no-nonsense bot, with levels of honesty and forwardness that would make her fellow Camians cringe, or splutter in mortification. But she delivered this through an admirable stoicism that Moonracer had grown to appreciate it. But in that moment, something broke, giving way to a new reveal.

“What?”

“I said you’re a liar!” Firestar barked, flames erupting from her helm. Firestar grabbed Moonracer’s arm, grip like iron. Moonracer yelped, optics going wide at her friend’s unusual outburst.

“For cycles, I’ve watched you smile and act as if nothing is wrong. You’ve been pretending, lying, as if there isn’t a war going on. You’ve been faking, and I can’t stand it,” Firestar pulled Moonracer closer, their faces inches from one another, breath low and hot against her cheek plate, “ _I can’t stand you putting up an act._ ” Moonracer’s spark twisted in her chest, in both grief and something bolder.

Despite her friend’s anger and her own storm of emotion that continued to rage, Moonracer was acutely aware of how close Firestar’s lips were from her own. It sent a strange, but familiar bolt of feeling through her frame, tangling into the mess of emotion that was her roaring processor and burning spark. Moonracer shook her helm, trying to get a grip. Now was not the time to entertain the fleeting, seemingly impossible ideas she had before each recharge. Taking a step back, Moonracer tried to tear her arm from her grip, but Firestar held steady, optics blazing with an intensity the likes she never seen before.

Firestar’s flames danced viciously atop her helm, a visceral demonstration of her friend’s barely restrained anger. Firestar had always held a temper, and her frame was susceptible to her emotions unique to many Camians. Like herself, Firestar hailed from one of Cybertron’s colony planets, and enlisted in the beginning of the war. But unlike Velocitron, Caminus hadn’t been a flourishing planet filled with joy and successful trade.

Its culture was one of brilliant acting and plays, and when bots were offstage, cunning manipulation and sharp politics, and many taboos. The scarcity of resources on Caminus led to individuals becoming crafty and cutthroat, and the subsequent practices bled into all parts of life and culture. It was a sharp, cold colony, with a shining veneer of artistry and manipulation, both used as weapons of influence, and tools of entertainment. In a quiet moment, Moonracer had learned Firestar hated the theatrics of her home world, and was unable to form connections because of her flaring temper and unsubtlety , and the tangible reminders her Camien frame demonstrated those extreme emotions. She had fled Caminus, trying to free herself from the gilded cage the colony was, and to better her control over her feelings without the use of acting or manipulation.

So, for her helm to be openly blazing as it did in that moment, Moonracer knew her friend was deeply upset. All because of her dishonesty. Primus, how many more could she hurt, even off the battlefield?

“What do you want me to say, Firestar? Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.” Moonracer muttered, voice falling soft and without its usual high-pitch.

“Stop lying, and pretending you’re okay, and talk to me,” Firestar’s glare softened, as she cupped Moonracer’s cheek, “… _really_ talk to me, ‘Racer.” Moonracer shivered, her friend’s digits dancing dangerously close to her lips.

“I-I don’t know what to say…” Moonracer admitted, a tad brokenly. Firestar traced a digit down the length Moonracer’s cheek, finding its way to a spot under her chin, almost lovingly. But she didn’t dare make assumptions, not in this heated moment of emotions and boiling energon.

“For starters, you can tell me why you were crying in the washracks?”

Moonracer sighed. “I hate this war, for what’s its done to the planet, but more for what its done to me.”

Gingerly, Firestar hooked a digit under Moonracer’s chin, forcing her gaze to meet her optics. Her flames still crackled on her helm, but they were lower, and less frantic. Firestar’s gaze didn’t waver, and Moonracer felt both infinitely small and large at the same time, sending her spark into a conflicted frenzy.

“Keep talking.” It wasn’t a question, but a gentle command that sounded oddly comforting. Moonracer hesitated for a moment. What in Primus were they doing? Her longtime friend was nearly holding her in an embrace, demanding for her to talk about why she was crying in the washracks. Was it even worth telling Firestar her thoughts? Of how she truly hated herself, and resented the way her teammates saw her, almost to the point of wishing to be offlined?

How would Firestar react, and could she relate? Moonracer gritted her denta, her energon feeling hot and heavy in her limbs. She felt something crack, giving way to a flood of truth like a crumbling dam.

“I hate killing Decepticons. I hate their cause, and I’m no sympathizer, but I hate killing, even if it might be necessary, which I-I…am starting to question in and of itself,” Moonracer held up a teal-colored servo, “I hate myself for killing them, and I hate how the others praise my skills. Sometimes…I think being offlined would be better than to keep killing in this fragging war. Primus, Firestar, I’m just so _tired_ of it all, and I feel like a coward for thinking this way.”

Moonracer gushed and gushed, spilling forth all that weighed on her processor and spark. Cycles worth of grief, and self-hatred welled up, burning in the form of coolant in her optics and shaking of her limbs.

In her confession, Moonracer hadn’t noticed Firestar taking her into her arms, or how she had cradled her helm in the crook of her friend’s neck cabling. Firestar rubbed her back, offering a protective refuge in her steadfast embrace.

Moonracer melted into her friend, her pulsing chest plate meeting Firestar’s in a heated, and heavy-limbed union.

“I-I just don’t know who I am anymore…if I ever had a good idea to begin with.” Moonracer whispered.

Firestar pulled back slightly, optics hooded and gaze dark with something Moonracer couldn’t describe. But it was a gaze that Moonracer recognized, as something she only had fantasized about before. Firestar cupped Moonracer’s cheek, leaning in close once again.

Her voice was like controlled lightning, heavy and shocking, that sent a coil of something in Moonracer’s gut. It arced up her frame as Firestar spoke, her words like delicious electricity.

“I know who you are, and what I think of you. Would you like me to show you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, a cliffhanger. Don't fret, the smut is coming soon.


End file.
